No More Beer Money
by summerlinde
Summary: Wolverine goes shoe shopping. Post Last Stand.


Logan glared at the lady a few spaces down as he parked his motorcycle outside the doors to the mall. He hated places like this. A lot. But the kid needed shoes, and Storm was too busy to pick them up, and anyway, he'd promised he'd take care of her.

'Course, now he was stuck taking care of a couple dozen kids and he was starting to think this whole X-men thing had been a bad call from the start, but the point was, he'd said it, and he was stuck here, and he might as well spend the last of his beer money buying Rogue some new shoes because it wasn't like he had the time to go to the bar these days anyway. He'd be lucky if the kids didn't manage to blow up the school while he was out shopping.

Inside the doors, he scanned the map as fast as he could, finding the nearest shoe store and going straight there, glowering at the crowds around him. People gave him a wide berth even without his claws showing, but he didn't mind much. The mall was too busy, noise echoing off the tile floor and the glass railings around the upper level, and the mixture of dozens of perfumes, soaps, shampoos, deodorants, and body odors wafting from the crowds was headache-inducing even before he walked past one of those stores that sold fancy lotions and other fluffy stuff he didn't have the time or patience for.

He growled under his breath as he arrived at his destination and realized that the window of the store he'd picked was mostly full of high heels and sandals – which would never do. At least it was one of the bigger stores, so there was stuff he couldn't see. Maybe they had something in the back half that would let Rogue both walk and avoid killing anyone who stepped on her foot.

Wolverine barelled through the store, ruling things out at a glance as he passed them. No. Too tall. Too strappy. No. No. No. Definitely not. As he rounded the corner to try the next aisle, growling deep in his throat, a thin young man of about twenty-two appeared out of nowhere with a big, fake, salesperson smile on his face. "Can I help you, sir?"

Logan glowered at the boy, but when he didn't back down, he decided he might as well ask. "Need shoes for a 17-year-old girl," he barked.

"Well, what kind of shoes does she need?" the salesman prompted. What sort of a question was that? After a moment, though, Logan realized he must be asking whether he was looking for formal shoes or every-day shoes. Rogue probably needed formal shoes, too, since he doubted she'd been toting them around in her duffel when she'd snagged a ride in his trailer, but he was _definitely _not opening that can of worms today. Ororo could take care of it, or Rogue could do without. It wasn't like they did much that required dressing up anyway.

"Nothin' fancy," he told the salesman, "Just something for school."

The man smiled, waving Logan along behind him. "Most of our casual stuff's going to be over here." For the next five minutes, which felt like an eternity, the kid interrogated him under the guise of helpfulness, seeming shocked when Logan didn't know anything about what he was looking for. It hadn't crossed his mind that he needed to know what color they should be or what style, or even that there were multiple styles.

Obviously, he knew that not all shoes were the same, and that boots and sneakers and dress shoes were all different, but now he was having words like "ballet flats" and "slingbacks" and "mules" thrown at him, and even when he got it through the salesman's head that the shoes had to be closed and that Rogue needed to be able to run in them, there were still lots of questions about insteps and arches and running versus walking and whether or not Rogue wanted to tone her butt. He didn't know the answers to any of those questions other than that raging teenage hormones were enough of a problem around the mansion with Rogue's butt just the way it was.

He wanted to just grab something and run, but every time he tried, there were more questions. He wanted to just yell at the kid to shut up and let him buy his shoes and get out of here, but he'd been kicked out of enough places for his temper to know that if he ever wanted to be allowed in the mall again, he had to keep his claws firmly tucked away inside his hands. And now that he was stuck here, tied down to the mansion, it probably wasn't a good idea to go around getting banned from places.

"What's her favorite color?" the salesman asked, clearly trying to dumb down his questions in the face of Logan's inexpert answers to the previous ones.

Logan didn't know the answer to that one, either. "Green?" It seemed like a good enough guess, anyway. Her sweatshirt was green, so even if green wasn't her _favorite_, he knew she didn't _hate_ it, which was good enough for him.

"Well, you could always go for the classics. These just came in in green." The salesman held up a shoe from a nearby rack.

Logan grinned. It was perfect. "I'll take 'em." He grabbed a box labeled size 8 before the kid could say anything else and before long, he was back outside, basking in the sunshine and the open air as he walked back to his motorcycle, feeling pleased with himself.

Back at school, he snuck into Rogue's room, fully aware that she was out in the living room watching a movie with Kitty, and left the new shoes in the closet, the bright green canvas showing clearly against the dark carpet. She was sure to notice them, he thought with a grin. Converse high-tops. Protection all the way up to her ankle, but they'd be easier to run in than her boots. It might even be worth the fact that he'd had to go to the mall to get them. Almost.

He closed Rogue's door softly behind him and went back outside to mow the lawn, which had needed to be done for a while and which also got him conveniently out of the way. She'd probably figure out who'd gotten her the shoes, but he didn't feel any need to be there when she did. She could come thank him later if she felt like it. Or not.

As he pulled the cord on the ancient lawnmower, starting it up with his customary force, he knew that what mattered was that he'd kept his promise. He _was_ taking care of her. Her and everybody else. And as much as he hated it sometimes, he knew he wouldn't trade it for anything.


End file.
